


Posthumous Existence

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Cersei awaits her execution for incest and treason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Posthumous Existence

There had been some talk of making her watch Jaime’s execution but in the end they were, at least in their minds, merciful, and chose to leave her in her cell. Cersei knew that actually witnessing the moment would be painful, but somehow not being near him when the life was taken from him was worse. The day was bright and sunny, that much she could tell from the light slanted through her bars, and she spent the entirety of it pacing her cell ( _Like a lioness_ , she though bitterly) till her feet were raw and bloody. Everything around her was silent, as though she was already in her grave, but she could hear the hum of the crowd beyond. When a roar went up she knew that everything was over, but she didn’t need that to tell her that the end had come. Around noon she was struck with a sudden feeling of emptiness.

When the guards came to tell her, their words cruel and mocking, she prided herself on keeping a steady face and not letting them see her break. She could tell that her defiance irritated them, and that just made it easier for her to keep it up. That, and the fact that she had already broke the night before, when they ignored her pleas to see him one last time or to even take some words to him. Sobbing and vomiting and shaking with helplessness and unbearable pain, she was grateful for the solitude.

 _They should have taken us together,_ she thought, the night after they had taken his head. Curled up on her rough straw pad she tried to make herself sleep by thinking of him, the touch of his hand or the way he felt inside her. Sleep never came, but by the end of that night she wasn’t crying any more. She wasn’t doing anything except breathing.

She was somewhat grateful that the children would be done after her, and that she wouldn’t have to feel this sense of lost, surely magnified, when she knew their lives had been cruelly taken from them ( _They were innocent, why won’t they show them mercy?_ ). But she wondered, watching a spider spin a web in the corner of her cell, if they were to go before her, would she still be capable of feeling anything?

She was rather perplexed by this sense of loss, not just of Jaime but of herself. She stared down at her hands, the nails ripped out from scratching the walls of her cell in the days after her arrest, back when she still had some life in her. There was no pain in them now, not even when she bit down on them in an effort to feel something.

She had fought the entire time, had fought against her capture, had fought for her children, had raged and protested and grappled. It seemed like a thousand years ago now, a completely different lifetime, but surely it was only a matter of days. Now she was exhausted, and the anticipated coolness of the ground seemed a comfort. Her efforts had been fruitless, and the emptiness of death was preferable to this agonizing, prolonged nothingness.

In the long hours that followed Jaime’s death she thought of him, and their children, in the hopes of feeling something other than the hollowness that threatened to consume her. Her Jaime, who was gone and had left her all alone ( _He lied to me_ ). Their children, who had done nothing wrong ( _None of us had_ ) and would soon be killed, as abominations in the eyes of the Seven. Her children would be dead and she could do nothing about it and she still felt nothing, nothing but loss. _It’s because I’m already dead_.

Somehow sleep found her in the early hours of the morning, the type of sleep that was brought on by exhaustion and hunger and gave no feeling of rest. She dreamed of her mother, her face faded somewhat by the passage of time. But even so, through the haze of memory, she could feel the judgment in her eyes. Cersei tried to plead with her that there was nothing more she could do to save her children, that she and Jaime had harmed no one, but those green eyes remained cold and spoke of her failure.

****

They shaved her head that morning, taking no care with the razor and scrapping till she could feel blood run down her cheeks. She hadn’t flinched, but had sadly looked down at the gold curls gathering in her lap. Jaime would twine them around his fingers as they lay in bed, and when they got close their hair would mix till it was one mass. She did not want to meet him again with her head shaved clean, unrecognizable, till she remembered that they must have done the same to him. They wouldn’t go to their death together, like he promised, but they would go alike.

She had decided that she must be as collected and unfeelingly as possible when they came to take her. And she was, and it was surprisingly easy to walk smoothly beside the guards with her head held high. But, after all, she had no reason left to fight. What was her, what was Cersei, what mattered was dead and gone. Everything after this was a formality.

 _If only I could save the children,_ she thought on the way to the block, but there was nothing that could be done for them. Every plea of mercy was exhausted and she knew that Robert would never let them live. She was glad that they spared her having to see them one last time because she knew that, despite everything, she would not be able to keep up this cool façade in their presence.

 _They will have a quick, and painless death. And then they will be with us, beyond, and we will be together as we never could be here. And their blood will be on Robert’s hands, and this is a crime worse than anything I have done. The Father will judge him harshly_. That final part was the mantra that passed through her head on that long walk from her cell. But even still, despite the emptiness and despite the fact that she knew all gestures to save them would be fruitless, she began to work out some mad plan to save them. She looked down at the Gold Cloak beside her, at his sword. Jaime had never given into her pleas to teach her to use one, but she could take him by surprise—could grab it, slice his throat, and run off before she was taken, run to rescue her children.

But she realized that she had no idea where they were being held. And the sword seemed so heavy—even holding her chin up was a tiring act.

The light outside was blinding, and made it difficult to focus on the crowd, but she could hear their roar and feel the vibration of the celebration all around. _It’s the same. The same sun, the same noise. A different day, but still the same_.

The guards walked her around to stare at Jaime’s head and she forced herself to be deaf to their harsh words. She looked at it briefly, without seeing, and then turned her attention to the empty spike beside him. She pictured her own head there, as she knew it would be soon, and was grateful that they would not be apart for long.

The guard gripping her arm shoved her forward, towards the block, and that’s when she found the strength to speak for the first time that day, to remind him that she was still his Queen, still a Lannister, and she would be treated and handled with respect. The man said nothing, but at least he would not be able to truthfully say she had been weak in her last moments.

The block was uncomfortable, and the wait worse. She could see nothing but the wood planks below, but she was able to gauge what was happening by listening to the crowd. _Why do they hate us so? We did nothing wrong. We are one person, we shouldn’t be apart. We harmed no one._ Her knees ached, her soul ached, and the sense of loneliness and solitude was overwhelming. The crowd was pressing around her, all eyes were on her, and she never felt more alone.

A bevy of memories, some pleasant and some horrible, flickered across her closed eyes and suddenly, finally, she could feel. She thought of her children and stifled the sob in the chest. She thought of her father, and the way he had looked at her when he came to see her after her arrest. _All his children had failed him._ The onslaught of memory was terrible, and she had to force herself to remain steady. _I will not give them the satisfaction. I am a lioness._

She heard the executioner move into position and she decided that she must focus on one memory, on something to hold on to as the end approached and to take with her to the grave. Something far removed from here, something that made her feel less alone.

 _I was nine, and it was a warm day, just like this, and Jaime and I were together in a field of flowers, and I never felt so complete…_

She could feel the ghost of a smile on her lips, then nothing.


End file.
